


Sweet Nothings

by teenagewaste



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Canon Divergence, Canonical Use of Slurs, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of 3x06, this is really just a lot of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 04:46:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11154528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenagewaste/pseuds/teenagewaste
Summary: It was always funny to Ian how Mickey thought that he wasn’t good enough. How with every touch that Mickey left on Ian’s skin, every word he left reverberating through his mind, he was somehow ruining Ian, somehow ruining how good Ian was. How at night, when it was dark and they’d lay awake so close in a messy tangle of limbs that it was impossible to tell where one of them ended and the other began, Mickey would whisper sweet nothings to Ian. Sweet nothings, they’d call them. Sweet nothings, but they’d held the meaning of the entire world.





	Sweet Nothings

It was always funny to Ian how Mickey thought that he wasn’t good enough. How with every touch that Mickey left on Ian’s skin, every word he left reverberating through his mind, he was somehow ruining Ian, somehow ruining how good Ian was. How at night, when it was dark and they’d lay awake so close in a messy tangle of limbs that it was impossible to tell where one of them ended and the other began, Mickey would whisper sweet nothings to Ian. Sweet nothings, they’d call them. Sweet nothings, but they’d held the meaning of the entire world.

While Mickey believed that he wasn’t worthy of the beautiful things in life, beautiful things like unconditional love and unadulterated happiness; while Mickey didn’t believe that he was worthy of _Ian_ , Ian thought Mickey was worth more, more than anything. More than Ian could ever give him, more than the South Side could give him, more than he even knew how to begin to explain to Mickey what he deserved.

While Mickey believed that Ian was too good, that he with his touch and his words and his actions he was slowly burning holes into Ian and turning him into nothing but a shell of himself, Ian thought that Mickey was too good. Mickey was rough, but had a gentle touch, and an even gentler heart when it came to Ian. Mickey, the man who rescued Ian from what was sure to be his downfall and ultimate demise when no one else seemed to care to, braved the tyrannical abuser who held him as a slave his entire life to declare his love for Ian, the man who got Ian help and stayed with him, despite the shortcomings that Ian had. Despite the things that Ian had done.

No, Mickey had never ruined Ian. Ian was slowly turning Mickey black with every day that had gone by, and every day that passed.

When Ian used to feel that familiar itch under his skin, the one that he could never quite scratch no matter how many runs he went on, no matter how many ideas he failed to go through with, no matter how many white lines went into his blood stream, no matter how many people he slept with, there was the voice in the back of his head that always reminded him that Mickey was there. Mickey was at home, he had to go back to Mickey. So he stopped running.

Sometimes, even though it’s been so long and he’s been stable for even longer, it still seems as if Ian can feel the hands of men that he was with when he should have been here, with Mickey, here, where he belongs. Where he’s always belonged. When he feels those phantom hands ghosting over his ribs or his arms, it feels as if he shouldn’t belong here anymore. How he betrayed the one person who has laid down their soul for him and Ian took it with little regard for how precious it was. He shouldn’t be here, in this bed, in this house, in the arms or the heart of the man that loved him still, because he didn’t deserve it.

Sometimes on nights when Ian drinks too much, he tells Mickey the things that race through his mind at night, the things that he doesn’t want the light of day to touch. It’s as if the words hit the sunlight, then they’re real, and raw, and maybe Mickey will actually see them for what they are, see the monster that’s inside of Ian, the monster that’s been in his bedroom, his kitchen, his home, his heart. He’ll see the monster that took over the boy that once was Ian Gallagher and he’ll flinch back at the very touch, no, the very sight, and he won’t want Ian anymore. He won’t stay any longer.

So when Ian drinks too much, the words come pouring out of his mouth as if the alcohol somehow turned the faucet in his brain on.

“I’m so sorry,” He mumbled into Mickey’s hair as his head rested on Ian’s bare chest. The moonlight from outside outlined him, reflecting off of his pale skin and made it seem as if he was shining in the room. He may as well have been. “I’m so sorry, for everything I’ve done, for everything I’ll do. I’m sorry. You’re always hurt because of me. Always so good to me. Always take you for granted.”

His words came out in short sentences, the thoughts in his brain swimming around in a haze, unable to form into a complete coherent idea.

“The fuck are you going on about?” Mickey groaned, waking up from a gentle sleep. “It’s like four in the morning man, why aren’t you asleep yet?”

“’M drunk. ‘M sorry. I love you.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Ian paused for a few beats before responding, unsure of whether or not he really wanted to answer.

“All I do is hurt you.”

“What do you mean all you do is hurt me?” Mickey sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around his waist. The moonlight suddenly reflected off of his eyes and it made Ian’s heart stutter, took his breath away. His thoughts went hazy again for a moment.

“It’s been four years, Mick. Four years and how much have I done to you? Cost you? Fuck, I got us caught, twice! No, fuck, three times. Holy shit, three times. Got you shot, twice. You-you fucking…your dad-he. He did that-to you. And, now-now, like, I know it’s been-” Ian gasped.

He hadn’t realized he was crying until he was gasping for air like he had been underwater for years and was finally reaching the surface. Sometimes Mickey could make him feel something like this, when they were kissing like the world was ending, kissing like they were both starving and that was the only way to survive a famine. When they’d kiss like that, sometimes Ian would feel like he needed to come up for air; his head would start spinning, his heart beating too fast, and he’d need to pull away, breathe in the air shared between them in tiny gasps. It was something like this. This made him feel like he was about to fall apart, like any breath could be his last. Kissing Mickey made him feel invincible, like the entire world could be ending outside and it wouldn’t matter because his world was right in front of him, and damn all else.

So yes, it was something like this, but also nothing like it at all.

“Ian,” Mickey rested his hand on Ian’s cheek, desperately trying to wipe away some of the tears that just wouldn’t stop flowing. Ian closed his eyes tightly, trying to will them away silently. This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to break down, he was supposed to apologize, make some sort of better out of this. Why couldn’t he just get something right here?

“No, Mick, no. Please just let me talk,”

“Ian…Ian you’re drunk.” He sighed; taking the hand that was on Ian’s cheek and instead running it through the long strands on top of Ian’s head, scratching gently at his scalp as he moved his fingers along.

“Know I’m drunk, don’t care,” Ian mumbled. “Still, let me talk. Please.” He opened his eyes again, his tear stained eyes. The green stared into the blue, hoping that the desperation that he somehow couldn’t get out with his words was somewhere in his eyes, hoped that Mickey could see it. Perhaps Mickey saw it, because he continued to run his hands gently through Ian’s hair, but otherwise stayed completely silent.

“I’m sorry,”

“So you keep fucking _saying,_ Ian,” Mickey cut him off again. 

“Mickey,” Ian said in a way that he hoped was sternly, but he could hear the way his voice shook. Mickey pressed his lips together and nodded slightly. “Your dad. He did…what he did, when he caught us. I put you at risk, by being here. Just by fucking existing too close to you, I did that. And then it just snowballed from there. To-to Svetlana, and…and the wedding,” He choked out, stopping for a second to catch his breath again.

“And then I ran. I ran away when you needed me the most. I left you alone. I left you with your dad, and Svetlana, and this house, and I didn’t even care. I just walked away. Just like my fucking mom. I came in and I destroyed and I left without a care in the world,” Ian continued on. He started to sit up in the bed, his body trembling slightly. “And then I got sick.”

He squeezed his eyes closed tightly; thinking about how this night could have gone differently, had he kept his mouth shut. They would still be tangled together, holding each other in a moon lit room with no regard for anything outside of each other. Maybe the sweet nothings that were so often exchanged between the two, the lovely words that were able to see the sunlight would be present, rather than the ugly hatred spilling out of Ian’s mouth.

These were not the kind of sweet nothings you whisper to your lover in bed at night.

“I got sick, and my brain went haywire. And you had to come fucking _rescue_ me, after I fucking left you! I left you and you still had to come look for me, you should’ve just let me stay there.” Mickey opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but closes it quickly when he decides better. “I was dancing in a gay club, I was sleeping with any guy who came up to me, I pressured you into coming out to your father, I moved into your house, had a depressive episode and laid in bed for weeks, made you worry that I was going to _off myself_ , did fucking _porn,_ and I ran away with your _kid_.” 

Mickey’s hand had long since stopped moving through Ian’s hair, now resting limply on his chest instead. Mickey was simply staring at him, and Ian briefly wondered if Mickey was finally seeing it, finally seeing the black inside. The monster that moved in. He wondered if Mickey knew, if Mickey was finally realizing, that Ian had a touch that was made of poison, that he hurt everyone around him. If this was the final straw, if this was the final moment. If Mickey would realize now that it was a laid out in front of him and leave.

“You had to send me to a psych ward, watch me walk around like a zombie, get out and deny my meds, struggle with acceptance, treat you like _crap_ for trying to take care of me, get arrested, run away with my mother, and then come back,” Ian gasped to take another breath. “I came back-came back and tried to leave you, Mick. If you didn’t sit there and force me to see some kind of sense then where the hell would we be now? We’ve struggled, and clawed, and I’ve hurt and left and taken and what the hell have I given you in return Mickey? What? It’s been four years and I’m still waiting for you to realize that you’re too good for me, that your love is wasted on me. That no matter how much love I give you now, it’s never going to make up for the things I’ve done, and the things I can do.”

Ian took in another shaky breath and whispered, “The things my mind can do. I don’t trust it. What have I ever given you Mickey? What can I ever give you?”

The room was silent for what seemed like a lifetime. Ian waited, waited for the other shoe to drop. Waited for the moment that Mickey yelled, told him to fuck off, told him to get out of his house, that he never wanted to see him again.

“Can I fucking speak now?” Mickey said. Ian winced, waiting. “What have you ever fuckin’ given me? God dammit Ian, why you always gotta ask me shit like that? You gave me a fucking home okay?” Ian’s eyes snapped open so fast it felt like the room was spinning. He had forgotten how drunk he was, how this whole thing started.

“I didn’t know what a fucking home was before you. I lived in this fucking piece of shit house, with a piece of shit dad, with piece of shit brothers, and yeah, Mandy’s good, and Iggy’s okay most of the time, but this place was fucking hell. You came busting through my god damned door and it was like my entire life became something different.” Mickey sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. Ian could tell that he was struggling to push out his words.

“Mick, it’s okay, you don’t have to-”

“No, fuck, Ian, you had your turn and now it’s fucking mine, ‘kay?” He said harshly, now Ian’s turn to stay quiet as he patiently watched Mickey string his thoughts together. “You turned my entire world around, you know that? I wasn’t fuckin’ scared of anything but my dad, and then you walk in, a floppy haired ginger fuck, and you were the scariest thing I had ever seen. Could’a kicked your god damned ass, but the scariest part was when I looked at you I didn’t want to, couldn’t bring my fist down to hit you.”

“Fuck,” He muttered, reaching over to the nightstand to grab a cigarette, placing one delicately in his mouth and flicking the lighter to life and lighting the cigarette between his lips. Ian watched the movements, the actions that he knew almost perfectly because Mickey repeated them almost religiously throughout the day. On an exhale of smoke Mickey continued, “Yeah, we got caught, but that wasn’t your fucking fault. That,” Mickey’s voice began to waver slightly before he took another drag from his cigarette. “That is on fucking Terry. You should get that through your thick fucking skull. Anything that happened because of that fucking day, Svet, the wedding, the kid, that’s on my fucking dad, Ian. That’s not you, that was never on you. You had a gun pointed at you just like the fucking rest of us. What were you supposed to do? Use your fucking telepathy to throw the gun out of his hand and across the fuckin’ room?”

“And yeah, you left, but I didn’t fucking help any better,” Inhale, exhale. Ian gets lost in the way his cheeks hollow and the way the dent in between his collarbones gets slightly deeper on the inhale. “I pushed you away. You came to me, you wanted two fucking words, you wanted me to tell you not to leave, and I couldn’t get them out. Maybe you shouldn’t have left, but I should’ve told you to stay.”

Mickey brought his free hand through his hair, closing his eyes again. Ian can tell he’s trying to talk, he knows these words don’t come naturally to Mickey. He can’t help but feel like this is just another way he’s hurting him, how he’s forcing Mickey to talk about things that he doesn’t want to remember, forcing him to talk about emotions he’s not comfortable with.

“Fuck you.” He says simply. That’s what Ian was waiting for. “Fuck you for apologizing for anything you did when you were sick, any of it. Thought we fuckin’ got passed that shit, Ian? Thought we fuckin’ moved on?” When Mickey looks up, Ian sees that the blue has glassed over. “Not in your fuckin’ right mind when you’re manic, you know that, man. Anything you did like that…fuck, yeah, it hurt, not gonna lie to you, never did ‘n I’m not gonna start now. But I know that’s not you. The kid who stole a helicopter or a baby or danced in a fuckin’ club or fucked old dudes for money or cheated on me wasn’t really you, I came to terms with that a long ass time ago, Ian. Thought you did too.”

Mickey sighed again, stayed silent for a few moments as he finished off the last of his cigarette before carelessly flicking it onto the floor.

“And you’re not your fuckin’ mom. You gotta get that shit outta your fuckin’ head. That’s your family’s warped ass way of manipulating you and guilting you into doing shit. Taking your meds isn’t a guilt trip, it’s there to make you fuckin’ _better._ You’re not your mom any more than I’m fuckin’ Terry. You got better, you have a fucking job, you stuck around with me, and with your family, and you’ve been stable for over a year, yeah? When’s your bitch of a mother ever done that shit? Just ‘cause you got the same disorder runnin’ through your brain doesn’t mean you’re anything like her.” His distaste for his family was obvious in his tone before his eyes and voice softened. 

“Man, I didn’t know what a home was. I had a roof, sometimes, but I was…I don’t fuckin’ know, lost? I guess. You were the one that kept me grounded. It didn’t matter where the hell we were, I followed you everywhere, ‘cause you were my home. You’re still my fucking home, Ian. You…you taught me how to care about something, someone, that wasn’t my fucking self. I cared about you, still fucking care about you, I love you. I didn’t fuckin’ know what love was when you came busting through my door bitching about some gun. You’re the only reason I know what love is. What caring is. What a fuckin’ home is.”

Mickey smirked slightly, “And yeah, you got me shot twice, but that’s kinda badass.”

His face got serious again, his hands coming up to cup either side of Ian’s face. Ian didn’t realize that the tears had started again, he was too lost in Mickey talking, too lost in the words _home, love, care, taught, you._ He stared up at Mickey, at the one man he’s ever been sure of loving in his life, the one man he’ll ever love like this, the one man he’ll probably ever love.

“Don’t ask me what you’ve ever given me, man. You gave me hope okay? Hope, and a home, and love, and acceptance, and all of that gay shit, right? I was going through the motions, and you made me want to wake up in the morning. I love you.”

“I love you.” Ian croaked out weakly. Mickey crawled over, gently throwing a leg over each of Ian’s sides. The kiss that Mickey placed on his lips sent sparks through Ian’s body, warmed him up more than the alcohol still buzzing through his veins. It was slow, brief, and when it was over it somehow had him feeling like he was dying of thirst and perfectly hydrated all at the same time.

“You’ve gotta stop shitting all over yourself all the time, Ian,” Mickey whispered, his words getting lost in the breaths that they shared as their foreheads rested against one another’s. Ian’s hands rested on Mickey’s hips while Mickey’s hands still cupped Ian’s face, so softly that their skin was barely touching, the heat the only thing being felt between Mickey’s hands and Ian’s cheeks. “You don’t cause all the bad things in this world, global warming’s not your fuckin’ fault, neither’s war in the god damned Middle East, or gas prices going up, or anything else you can think of.”

“And what we got here, right here, right now?” Mickey smiled, kissing him again, this time with a bit more urgency, a bit more intent. As if he needed to relay some sort of message to Ian that he just couldn’t get out with his words. “It’s pretty damned good if you ask me. I’m fuckin’ happy.”

“I’m happy too, you make me happy.” Ian whispered. He couldn’t bring his voice above that, above the soft hum that was coming out of his throat, afraid that if he spoke too loud, the moment would be gone, the sweet nothings would turn to dust and disappear into the air. These, these are the sweet nothings that are meant for lovers to share. These are the words that you’re meant to say to each other at four in the morning when you should be sleeping. These are the words and the conversations that Mickey deserved. “Happier than I’ve ever been. The happiest I’ll ever be.”

“Well get fucking used to it ‘cause you’re not getting rid of me,” Mickey smiled. His voice wasn’t a whisper. Mickey wasn’t afraid like Ian was, he wasn’t afraid of the moment falling apart because he created the moment. “I’m like a leech, man.” Kisses were placed down Ian’s neck in quick succession, causing a smile to spread over Ian’s face.

“You’re incredible, Mick,” Ian sighed out, finding his voice to be a bit louder, a bit less afraid. “I love you. I’ve never loved someone before; but you, I’ve always loved you. Know I’m drunk and all, but I’ll say it tomorrow, when I’m sober. I’ll say it whenever I can, whenever you want.” His unspoken words rang through his head.

_I’ll say it where the daylight can touch it, I’ll say it where it’s real, and I’m not afraid._

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey laughed, biting down softly at Ian’s collarbone. Ian let out a small breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“No, really,” A kiss to the top of Mickey’s head. Sweet nothings. The good ones, the right ones. “You’re perfect, in your own kinda way. You saved me. Save me again every day, save me like, twelve times every day, fifteen on a bad day.”

“Fifteen, huh?” Mickey smiled into Ian’s neck, placing another kiss, and then another. “How the fuck’d you come up with fifteen?”

“Just seemed like a good number, ‘dunno.”

“Fifteen it is, then.” Another kiss. “What time is it?”

“Don’t care, want to talk, please,” Ian wrapped his arms entirely around Mickey’s torso, holding him closer to his own body. The heat radiating off of him did nothing to soothe the heat from the summer blazing around them outside, but Ian didn’t care, and from the looks of it, neither did Mickey. He placed his lips onto the top of Mickey’s head and left them there, not particularly kissing the spot but just letting them linger there.

“Then talk, Gallagher.”

Ian was silent, he didn’t want to ruin this, didn’t want to ruin the good of this, the sweet of this. He could just leave it, but the faucet is still running, his brain won’t stop.

“Sometimes…sometimes I just can’t stop feeling their hands on me, Mickey. I feel like I don’t belong here, I feel like I don’t deserve to be here. It’s like there’s ghosts on me, grabbing at me, and it’s just a reminder of what I did,” He mutters into black hair, inhaling the smell of what is probably Mandy’s shampoo.

“You don’t gotta do that, don’t gotta feel bad all the time, I told you that, I keep telling you that.”

“I can’t fucking help it, it’s not just something I can turn off,” Ian sighed, blindly reaching over and patting down the nightstand for a cigarette, lighting one and inhaling deeply. “In theory, I belong here, I know I do. But then I feel it; I can feel it and I just want to leave you to find someone better, someone who didn’t hurt you, someone who didn’t give you any bad memories to hold on to. You’re worth more than bad memories you know that, right? You’re worth the entire world and you deserve someone who’d give you a perfect idea of love, of a relationship, with nothing bad attached. Just good, all good. I want you to be happy, even if I have to watch from the sidelines, even if it’s not with me.”

“Ian, fucking quit that shit,” Mickey sat up again, taking the cigarette out of Ian’s hand and putting it out in the ashtray next to them. “First off, don’t I get a say in who I fucking want? I fuckin’ want you, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t and fuck you for thinking otherwise. And who the fuck says you’re not a perfect idea of love, or whatever? I don’t give a fuck about bad memories, there’s plenty of other shit that cancels out whatever you’ve done. I promise you that I don’t even fucking think about any of that shit. That never crosses my mind when I think of you. That you and the you that I’m lookin’ at right now are two different fuckin’ people in my mind. You didn’t mean it, and I know that. Tell me. Would you get out of this fucking bed and go shove your cock up some random dudes ass?”

“What? Fucking–of course not,”

“Then I got nothin’ to fuckin’ worry about,” Mickey settled back against Ian’s chest. “I know you’re not gonna stop thinking about it. I know nothin’ I say is gonna help. Just talk to me, okay? Know I’m not the best with this shit, but it’s better than you feelin’ like you gotta leave every time you remember something. I don’t want that. I want you, here. For a long ass time, maybe forever, if I don’t fuckin’ kill your freckled ass first.”

Amazing how one moment Ian could be on the verge of feeling like he needed to leave, how he felt as if he didn’t belong in this bed, in these arms, and the next moment feeling as if he couldn’t be anywhere else. Sometimes when Mickey speaks – or even just exists, really – Ian’s head starts to rush, thoughts endless and unfocused, so full of Mickey that Ian’s unable to do much else but think about Mickey. It makes him do stupid things sometimes, feel reckless sometimes, feel out of control sometimes. Gives him too much energy, maybe the right amount of energy. Makes him euphoric, but just the right kind of euphoric.

Ian’s come to realize that falling in love and being in love are a lot like being manic. The thoughts and the feelings, the spontaneity of it all. It scares Ian half to death sometimes. It feels as if he has to catch himself from the slope of mania, sit back and go through all of the things he had done and feelings he had felt in order to convince himself that _no, he isn’t manic, he’s just in love._

“If I could give you the entire universe I would, you know that right?”

“Why do you say gay shit like that, really, Ian?” Mickey groaned, but Ian could feel the smile growing against his neck, could feel the heat rushing to Mickey’s cheeks, and in return, Ian’s smile grew, and his arms tightened around Mickey.

“It’s not a lie, though, I really would,” Kiss to soft ebony. “I’d put it in a jar or something.”

“You want me to have the entire universe in a jar? Wouldn’t that, I don’t fuckin’ know, _somehow_ be a bad idea? Like if I shook the jar the entire universe would start shaking? Or if I dropped it the universe would shatter? And we’d all fucking _die?_ ” Mickey laughed, one of the deep laughs that came from the core of his stomach, the ones that he saved for Ian. “Man, you gotta think this shit through, Gallagher, that’s fucking stupid.” Kiss to his collarbone. “Sweet, but stupid.” Muttered so soft into his collarbone his ears strained to hear it, but he did.

Maybe Mickey didn’t understand the poison touch that he had, maybe Mickey would never understand. Maybe Ian simply just didn’t see where he belonged in this world yet, and couldn’t imagine that it was anywhere near someone like Mickey Milkovich. Maybe one day he would. But for now, he would take what he could get. He would give the love that he was giving, he would give all of the love he had to the man in his arms, the man who continued to save him every day without having to lift a finger or say a word, the man who loved him with every bone and cell and molecule and atom. For now, he would take the sweet nothings that he got, he would take the love he got, and give the love he had.

**Author's Note:**

> I..got inspiration for this at like eleven pm and stayed up until six in the morning writing it because I couldn't stop.
> 
> I also suck at summaries so.
> 
> (Before anyone starts to wonder I'm like a quarter of the way done with the next chapter of Leather Bound Secrets so I promise I'm not neglecting that for this)
> 
> I hope you enjoy it :)


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